He thought about furniture. About dying under rubble. About twenty-seven years of being invisible followed by one hundred and eighty-four days of mattering. About the fact that mattering meant something only if he was strong enough to protect what mattered to him.
He pushed.
Not past the limit. Through it. Into territory where his body's systems were operating beyond their design parameters and his will was the only thing keeping him functional. His pathways burned with damage that would take months to heal. His muscles were tearing with every movement. His mana reserve dropped past critical levels and into territory where most Hunters would have collapsed from depletion.
He maintained the output. Executed the sequences. Kept moving.
Hour eight was agony in ways he had no comparison for. Every technique hurt. Every breath hurt. His body was sending him continuous signals that he was causing permanent damage and needed to stop immediately.
He had two hours left.
